Mark Me Up
by Zomb13cat
Summary: It takes a few moments for Sam to realize that the water is no longer running. And it doesn't register until Dean is standing in front of him, barefoot, in only his jeans, beads of water running down his toned, naked chest, toweling his hair off. "Alright." He says. "Wha-?" Sam swallows audibly. "If you say you need a hickey, then you need a hickey."


Sam stands in front of the dingy bathroom mirror working away at the crook of his jaw and neck. He's been at it for lord knows how long, poking, pinching, prodding, even using his nails a bit; yet nothing seems to be helping. His skin is taut and sore but the resulting mark looks nothing like it should. Maybe he should try an empty soda bottle next, that might help emulate the suction but if he's not careful-

A half throat clear half chuckle shake him from his thoughts. Sam's eyes widen and his back straightens before turning sheepishly to face whoever caught him. Dean is standing there, arms crossed, clothing grease stained, with a judgmental little smirk on his face.

"What the hell are you doin'?" He asks doing a shit job of hiding his amusement.

"Nothin'" Sam lies horribly. And actually it's only really a half lie because to be completely honest he has no idea why he's doing what he's doing. It's so not like him.

"Riiight." Dean drawls out. Stands there not moving waiting for an explanation. Sam crosses his arms, and shifts nervously. He wants to bolt out of the tiny bathroom, but Dean's blocking the door way, stubborn as a mule waiting. For not the first time in his life, Sam wishes he was bigger than his brother. He's almost there only a few inches difference and he's pretty strong, so maybe he can push out of the bathroom anyway. No he can't, he sighs. There's no way in hell a lanky fifteen year old can go up against his 6'1 190lb big brother. Or maybe he could, but then Dean would be pissed _and_ curious and that would just mean – _Fuck_. Normally, if it were any other person in the world; Cops, teachers, school officials, politicians, _Dad; _Sam would have a long, elaborate, _believable_ lie. But this is Dean, the only person in the world he's never been able to lie to, and not for lack of trying.

So fine.

Just fucking fine.

"I need a hickey." Sam snaps. Dean reels back on the information. He stares at Sam like he just grew a third arm, which in their line of work isn't_that_ improbable but still. Dean's eyebrows scrunch together, and a million mocking insults circle underneath his eyes like a slot machine, so Sam braces for a good one.

"You're doing a horrible job." Is all he says. Sam's left there, doing his best impression of a fish out of water before Dean finally finishes. "I need the shower." Sam blinks, and realizes that Dean's covered in axel grease, looking extremely tired from working over 10 hours straight in a local garage for very little money. Dad's been gone for over a week and all their reserves have run dry, but Dean won't let him work because _one high school dropout is all this family needs_ _Sammy_.

Sam squeezes past his big brother; his body heat is engulfing and it threatens to swallow Sam whole; before making his way to the old threadbare loveseat in what passes for a living room in this shitty apartment.

Sam runs his hands over his face; it's boiling hot, and realizes he's probably been blushing beet red all this time. God he's pathetic. How does he get into these messes? One minute he's messing around with Sandy Thomson, the next she's accusing him of being a virgin, or gay, or a gay virgin, and the next the whole school thinks he has an older girlfriend (named Diana of all things) who he keeps secret because he doesn't want her going to jail. Maybe Sam shouldn't have played along, shouldn't have described her as having soft pink lips and green, green eyes, but all he could think of was how great it was rubbing it in Sandy's face when other girls batted their eyelashes at him. Fuck he was pathetic. Because now all he had was a blotchy bruise on his neck, a big brother who thought he was he was weird (which he was), and a lie that was just waiting to blow up in his face.

It takes a few moments for Sam to realize that the water is no longer running. And it doesn't register until Dean is standing in front of him, barefoot, in only his jeans, beads of water running down his toned, naked chest, toweling his hair off.

"Alright." He says.

"Wha-?" Sam swallows audibly.

"If you say you need a hickey, then you need a hickey."

Sam wants to protest. Wants to say that he doesn't need to do anything. That he'll gladly take the heat at school for however long they have to stay here. But all he does is nod his head as his big brother takes the seat next to him and cups his chin, twists him to examine the blotchy little bruise. "We should fix this." Dean lets out, in a gravelly voice; it's a little different from his every day voice, not dissimilar to how he sounds after a good hunt, when his adrenaline is spiked high.

"Dean, I-" is as far as he gets before he feels his big brother nuzzling at his neck. It starts out slow, and a little confusing to be honest. Small little kisses that are surprisingly gentle, followed by an attentive lick down Sam's jaw, and little feather light nips. Sam's pulse quickens. This is so very different from anything he's ever experienced, however limited that experience may be. It feels wrong, it is wrong, yet at the same time it feels so much better than anything he's ever done before. Sam's heart is caught in his throat. His breath quickens as Dean clamps down on his neck and begins to suck. It's got a strange rhythm; suck, kiss, nip, lick; that makes his blood flow faster in between each bite. Dean's left hand snakes itself into Sam's hair, pulls him back a little to get closer into his neck, and Sam hisses a little from the pain mingled with excitement. He can feel Dean smile against his skin before continuing to work a little harder on his neck. Dean's free hand presses against Sam's stomach, causing it to knot in on itself, heat pooling low into the very pit, and it is at this moment that Sam realizes he's half hard. Sam gasps moans a little. They should stop, his neck is most likely already marked, and what he's feeling- what they're doing- This should not be happening between brothers.

It takes all his strength, all his resolve, but finally Sam takes in a shuttered breath and lets out- "Dean-" The rest of the words, whatever they were, collapse in his throat, pool in his stomach and wrench themselves there as Dean abruptly stops. His breath is almost as heavy as Sam's. His face is slightly twisted with some strange emotion that might be guilt mingled with something else. His lips are red, swollen and shiny, and his eyes are big and dark, the iris a thin and breakable ring of sea glass surrounding a dark void that threatens to suck Sam in. And Sam wants that. He wants to lose himself in Dean. Morality, right and wrong be damned. He wants Dean. He wants his brother.

Something changes in Dean. "My neck is tired." He lets out, a little glint in his eye before he reaches over and pulls Sam over his lap. "Better angle." He smirks as Sam's heart kicks against his ribcage and he buries himself in the crook of Sam's neck and shoulder. Sam places his palms on his brother's shoulders, not knowing what to do; he begins counting each individual freckle in a useless attempt to keep control. Dean takes hold of his hips and pulls him down against him, grinding slightly. And it dawns on Sam that Dean's just as hard as he is.

"Dean, are you gonna- Are we-" Sam doesn't finish the question, doesn't know how to, but his answer comes anyway with a tentative roll of Dean's hips. The pressure of pulsing hot cock against cock makes white stars flash against Sam's eyelids. Something takes hold of him; he wants more of whatever that was. Sam starts grinding against Dean all on his own, strange little lewd noises he didn't think he was capable of escaping his lips.

"Fuck, Sammy, God." Dean lets out. "You're so fucking hot- God I wish you could see yourself." Sam opens his eyes, and when he closed them he's not exactly sure, and drinks Dean's flushed face in. "You're so fucking beautiful" He's wrong. Dean's the beautiful one. Sam wraps his arms around his brother's broad shoulders and pushes himself down closer. Dean fists his right hand into Sam's hair and pulls him down to smash their lips together roughly. His left hand slides down the curve of Sam's ass and squeezes tightly, almost painfully. Sam lets out a gasp and Dean takes the opportunity to dart his tongue in Sam's mouth. His mouth is minty and warm and for a moment Sam forgets how to breathe. A million thoughts go through his head, and he can't really focus on any single one of them. Every sensation is so raw, and new, and wrong, and so fucking right. He feels heat coil in on itself in his belly, every single muscle and tendon in his body snaps taut.

"Oh God." He can't help let out; he's standing on a razors edge.

"Do it." Dean presses him in deeper. "Fucking do it! Cream yourself for me, Sammy." And that's what does it. His balancing act slips. His spine melts and comes out in pulses of heat inside his pants, soaking through his underwear and jeans. Dean presses him in closer, relishing in the pulsing and throbbing of Sam's spent cock moaning about how he can feel it. He looks awfully proud of having made his little brother shoot out a nice big load.

Sam reaches down in between them, intending to peel back the fabric of his jeans so it's not chafing against his sensitive cock. His hand slips into his jeans before he realizes those aren't his. His big brother vibrates as Sam accidently brushes against his cock. Dean's not wearing any underwear, typical. Sam pulls out as if burned. His fingers are coated in clear, sticky precome, and all Sam can think to do is stick them in his mouth and lick them clean. That does it for Dean apparently. He pulls Sam in as hard as possible, leaving bruises on his hips and lower back, as he grunts out hard, bitten-off curses into Sam's hair and now its Sam's turn to feel the wet, pulsing heat splashing against his brother's jeans. They stay there for a moment. Neither one knowing what to do, neither wanting to let go. Finally it's Sam who decides to throw caution to the wind. He bends over and presses a soft, chaste kiss to Dean's lips. "You know what hickey's are, right?" Dean Smirks, and Sam's all too aware of the dozen or so points of aching heat around his neck and shoulders, along with – fuck- rug burn from Dean's stubble. "They're marks of possession." Dean continues, licks at Sam's swollen, parted lips. "You're mine."


End file.
